"Are you crazy, Mateo? This is a hundred-peso note."
"You'll also need a new suit. They won't let you into the Spanish
Embassy in those clothes."
"I'll buy my own clothes!"
"Rafael," Santiago said, gently, "Hall is our _companero_."
The boy began to blush. "I am sorry," he stammered, "but it is not my
way to accept such offers."
"I don't offer it to a man," Hall said. "I gave it to an officer of the
People's Army. It is money intended to aid that army in its fight."
"Hurry up, Rafael," Santiago said. "We will argue after we get out of
the Embassy--if we get out."
"I've got to see Lobo," Hall said when Rafael left. "I've got to tell
him to ask the American Intelligence Service to check on Ansaldo's
movements in Lisbon. I don't think he is going to operate on any
Portuguese jurist or anyone else in Lisbon."
"You'll make a fool of yourself, Mateo. You're not dealing with stupid
Spanish fascists like Franco and Gil Robles. You're dealing with the
German Nazis who run the Falange. I know them. They're too smart not to
have a patient waiting in bed for Ansaldo when he gets to Lisbon. Why
don't you see Lobo after our conference with Rivas? In the meanwhile,
I'd better get statements from de Sola and Carlos Echagaray on Ansaldo
and Marina."
* * * * *
Meeting Fernando Rivas in the home of the Cuban doctor, Hall was
reminded of what an acid-tongued Czech journalist said to him at Geneva
about Chautemps, a French politician. There was nothing wrong with the
politician, the Czech said, except that he had the face of a traitor. In
a city where the sun always shined, Rivas had the pallor of a skin which
never saw the sun. He sat tensely at the edge of the chair in More's
study, hands working a battered Panama, his puffy eyes darting furtive
looks at Rafael and Hall, men he had never seen before but whom he
obviously suspected of being agents of the Republican underground. Hall
thought: this is a man who can no longer know hate or love or anything
but fear.
It was Santiago's show. He ran it on his own terms. From the outset, he
made it clear that he, or rather the Republic for which he spoke, was
giving the orders. They were given decently, temperately, but not
without the proof that force lay behind the commands. Rivas was to
address him as Colonel. "And these," he said, indicating Rafael and
Hall, "are my aides, Majors Juan and Pancho."
"What is it you want of me, Colonel? There is nothing I would not do for
you."
"For whom?"
"For the--for the Republic."
"What Republic?"
"The Republic of Spain. The Republic of the Constitution of 1931."
"And why should the Republic trust you now, Rivas?"
"There is no reason, Colonel. I can ask only in the name of my family."
Rafael had seen the older brother of Rivas die charging a German battery
near Bilbao. "It is not your privilege," he said. "I knew your brother."
Hall laid a restraining hand on his arm.
"You betrayed your family when you betrayed your people," Santiago said,
softly. "It is not good enough. I must have a better reason."
"State your own terms," Rivas said. "I will meet them."
"Why?"
The traitor took out a silk handkerchief, mopped his face. He suddenly
seemed to grow, to straighten his back. His head held high, he looked
each man proudly in the eyes. A moment earlier, his hands, his lips had
been quivering. Now they were firm and still. "Why?" he repeated in a
new, stronger voice. "Why?" He was fighting for one last chance,
fighting with his remaining reserve of dignity. "I'll tell you why, my
Colonel. Because I don't care whether I live or not. But I want to die
as a Spaniard, as a free man again. I want to die as a Republican. Is
that reason enough?"
Colonel Santiago Iglesias was not a cruel person. He hated to play cat
and mouse with a human being, even with such as Rivas. But his first
responsibilities were to the Republic. "I hardly think so," he said,
speaking as an officer, although as a man he knew that Rivas had stated
a good reason, because he knew the reason to be true. "I hardly think
so, Rivas," he said. "Merely because the wife of a man who betrayed the
Republic turns out to be a whore is no reason for the Republic to love
him more."
Fernando Rivas bent forward, as if he were trying to ward off a heavy
series of blows. "No," he said. "It is not reason enough."
The thin body of Rafael Abelando shook with silent laughter for a
moment, and then it became still. The young major turned to Santiago,
his face filled with a sudden pity for the wreck of a man in the chair.
Hall caught the look, too, the admission of something Rafael would have
died rather than say out loud. The boy was ready to give the traitor
Rivas his last chance. It was the moment Santiago had been waiting for;
without Rafael's implicit confidence in his plan, he had all but decided
to call it off.
"What do you think, Pancho?"
Hall nodded agreement.
"And you, Major?"
"The hell with what I think. I'll do my thinking later. If he comes
through, I'll tell you what I think. If he funks out on us, I'll slit
his throat."
"All right, Rivas," Santiago said. "We will give you your chance. We
need your help tonight."
"Shall I come armed? I am an expert marksman, Colonel."
"No. We shall carry the arms. You shall carry the key--or the keys. We
want to get into the third floor of the Embassy, and we want to get out
alive--and without shooting. Can it be done?"
Rivas raised his head, stared into the faces of the three men who held
open the gates of the Republic. "I am willing," he said. "It might take
some planning, gentlemen, but it can be done." He held out his hand to
Santiago. The colonel accepted it.
"I am glad you are with us," Santiago said. "In a sense, you are the
most fortunate of the four of us. You see, Rivas, if we should all get
killed tonight, yours would be the most lasting memorial."
"But why me, Colonel?"
Santiago picked a heavy manila envelope up from the floor. He took out
the photographs of the memoir on Franco's Spain that Rivas had written
in his own hand. "You see," he said, "if we should all die tonight, the
Casa de la Cultura will publish your excellent memoir--with a postscript
about your heroic sacrifice."
"But how?" Rivas gasped. "Where?"
"You are surprised, Rivas? Please let me assure you that there are many
of us. We are everywhere where _they_ are. _Claro?_"
"I understand." For a fleeting moment Rivas had been back with the
Republic, a free man among free men. Now he was again a prisoner, but
with two jailers--Franco and the Republic. Now the Republic could force
the other to destroy him. "Yes," he said, "I understand." The Republic,
he knew, gave him his choice of executioners or his opportunity to fight
for his freedom.
"Well?"
"I am grateful," he said. "I am grateful for the chance to belong to the
Republic again."
"Good. We must plan. Shall we drink on it?"
There was a decanter of Scotch whisky on Dr. More's sideboard. Santiago
filled four glasses to the brim, then called for and filled a fifth
glass. "It is for the other who will be with us tonight," he said.
Eduardo was getting the affidavit on Ansaldo from the exile in Marianao.
"To the Republic!"
Hall watched Rivas drink his Scotch in one greedy, hysterical gulp. He
quietly filled the man's glass, shoved the bottle toward him. Rivas
downed the second Scotch, reached for the bottle, then changed his mind
as his hand was in mid-air.
"Paper," Rivas said. "The desk. I must draw a floor plan of the
Embassy."
* * * * *
At eleven o'clock, Rivas let Santiago and his three friends into the
Spanish Embassy through the rear door.
At ten-thirty, a large but unscheduled military parade started winding
through the streets of Old Havana. No one seemed to know what the parade
was about, but the soldiers in the ranks thought that it had something
to do with a surprise party being given to General Jaime Lobo to
celebrate his promotion in rank. It was his old regiment which had been
called out at nine that night and ordered into parade formation.
At ten forty-five, the paraders were halted for some reason, and the
General's runners motorcycled down along the line of march and told the
bandmasters to keep on playing the liveliest of tunes. The order reached
the second band in the line just as it stopped in front of the Spanish
Embassy.
A crowd gathered to listen to the band and watch the parade. Santiago,
Hall, Rafael and Eduardo casually detached themselves from this crowd at
precisely eleven.
Rivas led them quietly up the back stairs. The blare of the brasses, the
booming of the drums, the crashing of the cymbals penetrated every
corner of the Embassy. "God is with us," he said. "The noise is
wonderful."
Hall bit his tongue. A fat lot God had to do with it! He was crawling
behind Santiago, the Swiss automatic in the right hand cocked at his
hip. Eduardo was behind him, and ahead of Rafael. "Third floor," he
whispered. "We turn left at the head of the stairs and climb three
steps."
Santiago pulled out his gun as they approached the third-floor landing.
He allowed Rivas to get a few steps ahead of him, to take the three
steps which led to the library. "Go in with Rivas," he whispered to
Hall. "You too, Eduardo."
They followed Rivas into the dark room. He was standing near a draped
wall, motioning to them to follow him quietly. "Behind the drape," he
said. Eduardo closed in next to him. He frisked him for hidden knives or
guns. "Don't move," he said.
Santiago joined Eduardo and Hall. "Rafael is covering the door," he
said. He motioned to Rivas to approach the drape. Eduardo remained at
the traitor's heels, the gun in Rivas's back. Hall knew what to do. He
waited until Santiago flattened himself out against the wall which
paralleled the drape, then he quickly drew the cloth to one side. He
found himself facing a large steel cabinet built into the wall.
"Open." Santiago's fingers twirled an imaginary dial before his nose.
"Open it, Rivas."
The frightened man who was both host and hostage raised his hand slowly,
fingered the dial, dropped his hand in disgust. He dried his sopping
fingers against the front of his jacket, tried again. The tumblers of
the lock rose and fell; the lock remained closed. Santiago slowly
released the safety catch of his pistol. "What passes?" he asked.
"Ssh," Rivas pleaded. "I'll try it again."
"Wait." Hall held a small bottle of brandy up to Rivas's face. "Take a
drink. It will steady your hands."
"Many thanks."
"Open it."
"It's coming, Colonel."
Santiago looked at the luminous dial of his wrist watch; eight minutes
gone. The band would not be under the window all night. He beckoned to
Hall. "That white door near the window, Mateo. He says you will find the
_Arribas_ in there perhaps."
"I'll try it."
"He's opened the steel door," Eduardo said.
"Keep him covered." Santiago stepped in front of Rivas, opened the door
as wide as it would swing. He faced a multitude of locked steel drawers.
"Let me," Eduardo said. He changed places with Santiago. He was good at
picking such picayune locks; the concentration camp on the Isle of Pines
was full of native fascists whose careers ended when Eduardo jimmied
open the locks that protected their secrets. He could crack them open
swiftly, almost noiselessly.
"There's one," he whispered. "Two."
"He has a talent," Santiago said to Rivas.
Hall glided over to the white door of the closet. Like the others, he
wore soft-soled rubber shoes. He took a small oil can from his pocket,
saturated the hinges and the handle of the white door. Slowly, he opened
the wooden door. A book balanced precariously on an upper shelf behind
the door started to fall. He grabbed it with his left hand. A rash of
invisible pimples spread over his scalp. Too much noise that time, even
though the book didn't fall. He held his breath, counted to twenty. The
band was still blaring, the drums pounding away. Good old God!
He ran the slim beam of the dime-store flashlight over the shelves.
_Informaciones, A.B.C._, ah, here, _Arriba_! He turned to signal to
Santiago that he had found it, but the colonel had again changed places
with Eduardo, was now emptying documents from the little steel drawers
to the inside of his shirt.
Rafael, standing guard at the doorway, wildly signaled Hall to get to
work on the files. He pointed vigorously to the non-existent watch on
his narrow wrist.
Hall dug into the _Arriba_ pile. He pulled the top of the 1938 batch to
the floor, sat down in front of them. April. May. June. Not here.
Impossible! He sneaked the remainder of the brandy into his throat. Once
again. April. He looked at Santiago, working calmly; light flickering
over the papers in the drawers, eyes selecting the wheat from the chaff.
The problem is April. It happened in April, 1938. Easy does it. April
One. April Two. Three. Four. Seven. Nine. No. No. Not yet.
Santiago was in the middle of the room, his hands crammed with papers.
He beckoned to Rafael, stuffed batches of papers into the major's shirt.
"Got the bastard!" Hall said. He forgot to whisper. He climbed to his
feet, a yellowing newspaper in his hands. "Got it!"
A door opened on the floor above. "Rivas?" someone on the fourth-floor
landing called.
Rafael was still in the room. Santiago held his shoulder, shook his
head. Stay here, he motioned. He signaled for Rivas, handed him his own
gun. He pointed to the third-floor landing, smiled at the man.
The four men in the room covered the back of Fernando Rivas as he
advanced toward the landing, the warm gun gripped firmly in his sweaty
hand. They watched him stick his head out of the door, say, hoarsely,
"Yes. It's all right," the gun hidden behind his thigh.
"What's all the noise?" Fourth Floor again.
"Parade."
"What are you doing there?" No suspicion--just conversation. Anyone
could see Fourth Floor only meant conversation. Anyone but Rivas. To a
man, the four behind Rivas prayed he would stall off the man above him
with a polite nothing.
"None of your business, you fascist pig!"
Over and above all the noises of the city, of the band on the corner, of
the hearts thumping in the breasts of the four men in the room there
fell a whining silence which was both hours long and seconds short. Then
the silence was shattered by the crashing explosions of two heavy
pistols.
"Let me." Rafael ran to the doorway, flattened out against the wall. His
eyes took in the prone body of Rivas at the landing and the heap of man
sprawled on the stairs. Rivas was dead. His gun lay near his head. The
man on the stairs still held onto his gun. Rafael reached behind him for
the silent weapon, the weapon you used on lone forays into enemy
territory, on guards in concentration camps.
The knife flashed over his head, pinned the hand with the pistol to the
wooden stairs. Behind the knife flew Rafael. Once again the blade was
raised, this time with a hand still on it as it descended.